John Window was now a cat. His days, full of sleeping and yawning, were a departure from his former life as King of England. In that life he had no end of appointments and things to sign. All burden of state removed, he now pawed about his new suburban house and garden. A butterfly flew down.

‘Greetings, one time king, now cat.’

‘Hello there, butterfly, one time caterpillar. As you well know, I’m too lazy to hunt, and am far too self-absorbed to listen to you carefully.’

‘I know it quite well. That message has spread far, particularly among the birds.’

‘I’m pleased to hear it,’ said John the Cat as he lay on his side.

‘But to my purpose,’ said the butterfly, ‘I came, King-Cat, to ask you something.’

‘Oh, come on now. I became cat to get away from people asking me questions.’

‘I apologise but guarantee you it’s a simple question.’

‘Oh, very well then,’ the cat said and stretched his body. His ears twitched to a passing wind.

‘My question is this: in the times of old, your ancestors sought a special cup, which was said to bring special powers. Was it ever found?’

‘Oh now, my dear winged fellow. That is just a legend. And they weren’t my ancestors, but the ancestors of an invention. As such the cup never existed. You see, it is all a metaphor for truth, fidelity and blah blah blah.’

The butterfly fanned its wings slowly. The cat widened his eyes. ‘Really, dear butterfly, you shouldn’t bother your head with it.’

The cat leaned on its elbow and flapped his tail. The butterfly soon flew off and the cat licked his lips and ran his tongue down a paw. He rose on all fours. 

‘The getting of the grail doesn’t matter, it’s the journey that brings out those qualities. Ha-ha.’ He fell back on his side and yawned. ‘And going after nothing makes you fat, happy and sleepy. And who’s to say you can’t be faithful and lazy.’ 

From the corner of his eye he saw on the table a white teacup, left by the master of the house. ‘Ha! I found it. So much for Arthur.’ But as he closed his eyes, he remembered when he was the King of England shooting pheasants near Balmoral. A fat pheasant who strode close when he was about to shoot it, had spoken to the king.

‘Good day, King. Are you happy to shoot me today?’ 

The king, by the habit of princes of all time and place, let not his true reaction show, but with stately nerve replied.

‘Yes, though I confess I’m not in the habit of reasoning with my quarry.’

‘Nonetheless I must deliver a message to you. It’s this: for centuries we pheasants have been at the mercy of you princes. We have been shot and shot again. So we have learned to walk with our heads down in grave acceptance. But I appeal for one favour, should you choose to grant it. Destroy us totally. Makes us extinct like the Dodo. Makes us history. A life in fear is no life at all.’

‘Fine, I accept your request. But what should I hunt when you are all gone,’ said the king.

‘King, there are other things to hunt. Are you stupid or absent minded?’

‘Funny … you see the queen said something similar to me recently.’

‘Smart woman,’ the pheasant added phlegmatically.

With that the king shot the pheasant dead, then he went on a murderous crusade against pheasants telling himself it was their wish. Over the next year, there was a public campaign, for the people were no smarter than their king. They took to the fens, the woods, the fields, the moors. Even the army was drafted. The prime minister herself had a photo opportunity with a dead pheasant in hand, as it proved popular with the voter. Everyone savaged the pheasant, including the queen. The last one was killed in the north, its pathetic eyes taking a doleful look at a world too hateful for it. With the pheasant extinct from the realm, the king returned to Balmoral to listen to Wagner and dream about horses. As he reclined decadently the phantom of the pheasant came to his day dreams. He was the form of an angry head suspended in the air.

‘King, how is it you can rest so easy? You have killed us all.’

‘But,’ protested the king, ‘it was your wish. A life in fear is worse than—’

‘Yes,’ said the pheasant, ’and we thank you. Now I must haunt your sleep, for that is the price.’

The king writhed. ‘But I did what you wanted.’

‘Yes,’ said the bird, now just a beady eye in the king’s mind, ’but every action has a reaction. And now I have come to collect the debt. Be fair king, a little haunting for an extinction is a good bargain.’ 

The bird then began a series of whoops that scared the king. The beady eye then shot deep inside the king’s head, who sat up and tried to calm himself. He went to the doctors who tried to help him but to no avail. He woke every morning after a night’s dreadful sleep to the same distilled feeling of guilt. He began to imitate the pheasants, running and clucking about. They declared him mad. He considered the prospect of being possessed for years by pheasants terrifying. At length he decided to turn into a cat. So was the story of how the king became a cat.

It was some time later because the white tea cup had gone. He felt a stirring curiosity and thought he heard a faint voice speaking to him. He jumped on the table and sat with his tail around his legs and ruminated. 

‘What’s the importance of the cup? Nothing. It’s funny the butterfly talking about it.’ Still he felt something like a nagging feeling. 

‘Oh well … a change is as good as a rest. So, I shall try and find The Lost Teacup.’ He dashed off the table and stretched and trotted inside the house. The human was working in the bedroom, writing or something, and the cat went into the living room. From the the sofa he got a better view but saw nothing like a cup. Only the porcelain duck. 

‘Duck, greetings. I’m on a quest for the teacup. The cup as well as holding tea perhaps holds an answer. Have you seen the cup?’

The duck with its glazed eyes was silent.

‘Now come on, duck, you and the cup are of the same material. A kinship. Why be silent?’

‘Whaddya want a teacup for? Ya gonna drink teeee now? That’s for the huuumans. You’re a cat. I’m a duck. And that’s the way it is, maaate. I can’t move, fly or nothing. And you can’t drink tea. Shatter me senseless, cats don’t even driiiink tea. Whaddy wahn a teacup fa?’

The cat raised an eyebrow. ‘Charming, duck, charming. But as I have just said I want the cup for another reason.’

‘You’re an idiot.’

‘Oof, it’s simple,’ the cat said, impatient, ‘either you’ve seen the cup or not. If not, then good day. If yes, than where?’

‘Here’s what I think,’ the duck began, ‘I think you’ve been lapping at the old man’s braaaaandy again. And you know what you’re like when thaaaat happens. You don’t have the stomach of a king namore.’

‘No, no, no I swear I haven’t been at that. Not after last time.’

‘Yeah … well.’

‘I was taking solace. From king to cat, you would too.’

‘Oh … oh I’m sorry you can roll about, enjoooooy the pleasures. But I can’t moooove, mate. As still as a painted duck upon a painted laaaaake. And as useless. But ho, you need your solace, that’s right. Remember you brooooooke the old fulla’s trinket box. He landed you a nice toe in the ribs IIIIIIIIII remember. Got you right and precious.’

The king hissed.

‘Ah keep ya fur on, mate.’

‘The cup!’

‘Well … I heard ratty gabbing on about it.’

‘Rat?’

‘Yeah, ratty. Some cat yoooooou are! No wonder the old man wants to give you baaaack.’

‘Fine, what about the rat?’

‘Ratty knows.’

‘And … ’

’And what?’

‘Don’t make me mad.’

‘Don’t make you mad. I’m just giving you the facts, mate.’

This was too much for the cat and he nudged the duck off the drawers and onto the tiled floor, smashing it to pieces. The old man would curse, but the cat thought it was worth it.

‘Impertinent creature,’ the cat said.

The cat jumped on the table. He didn’t see a teacup anywhere. But he did see a small plate of ham. Thinking nothing, he began to calmly eat. With closed-eyed glee, he thought how easy it would be to find the cup. He didn’t notice the human standing in the doorway. 

‘Bloody cat!’ the man said.

The old man lurched and the cat dashed quicker than he ever had. The man blocked the entrance so the cat scrambled the other way under the table towards another door, which lead to the hallway. Once there he darted through the front door’s cat flap with the sound of human anger ringing in his ears. The old man for all his bluster didn’t follow him outside and the cat leapt on a small brick wall. The spring sun shone on in the stillness of the road. He purred in the blaze of sunshine. Soon, however, the search for the teacup resumed.

‘Where does rat live? I’m a cat, I should have a nose for this kind of thing.’

He sniffed something under the house. By the back door was a concrete porch under which was an empty space closed off by bricks. Some were missing and there was a hole just large enough for the cat. He squeezed into the dark and dirty place, yet with streams of light, which reminded him of Westminster Abbey. It smelled of dank and mould and there where cobwebs above and below. He was certain there was a rat. Then he heard the squeak. It came from further into the darkness. He heard it again and stretched his claws slowly in readiness. A third time it squealed, but it sounded like laughter. He moved closer and focused his eyes. The rat was on his side, legs twisted around each other with his hands flailing about in the convulsions of laughter, oblivious to the cat’s presence.

‘Hello rat,’ said the cat.

The rat continued laughing not taking the slightest interest. He rolled on his back in a guffaw. 

‘I said hello, rat.’

The rat continued laughing but opened his eyes a little.

‘I need to talk to you,’ the cat said.

The rat tried to stop laughing but every time he tried he would burst out anew.

‘What’s so funny?’ the cat demanded.

‘Eeek … the best. Over-epic like.’

Rat was a strange creature. And cat thought that the bias of his race against his kind was justified. Yet the cat rather liked him. 

‘It’s really good stuff, dude … a sweet buzz, ha-ha,’ said rat who was smiling from ear to ear and the cat began to titter though not wanting to.

‘What I don’t understand,’ the cat began, ‘is why you are not afraid of me. The rat and the cat – the old story.’

‘Dude … like you were king … in another life or something … doors of perception … you know what I mean. Hey, I’m down with it … we don’t need stereotypes. You’re a legend, man, part of the machine and you got out. You did it … got outside yourself … you know what I mean?’

The cat’s whiskers twitched letting fall some dust from them. ‘To be honest,’ began the cat, ‘I’m too lazy to hunt you and the old man keeps me too well fed.’

‘Oh, the old man … dude I’ll tell you what though, he keeps a good store if you know what I mean. Mana from heaven like. Good stuff.’

‘Yes. And how did you know I used to be king?’

‘The duck … he likes to talk. He can’t do anything else I suppose. The times I’ve been off it and talking to him … ’

The cat breathed deep and solemnly.‘Rat. I’m on a mission. I heard the voice of the ancients calling to me through the web of time. It moved me when nothing should ever move a cat. I can’t understand all the reasons. And yet … I must find the teacup. A white teacup. Then I can rest, which is my favourite past time.’

‘Dude … that thing is crazy mad. You see it, then you don’t.’

‘You’ve seen it?’

‘Oh yeah,’ said the rat getting on all fours to look more earnest. ‘It’s odd, man … when you see it it’s like its speaking to you but not in a language you can understand.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I don’t all know, dude … I would stare at it and feel this … thing … then close my eyes and when I opened them it would be gone. Then after a while it stopped appearing and then I forgot about it. But you saw it, man … you saw it.’

‘What can it all mean?’

‘It could be anything … hey, has it come into your dreams yet?’

‘What? No.’

‘It came into mine and I was like inside it, just white all around. And you become white.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean, it’s like you become pure. Like how things should be is on the inside and how things are, is on the outside. So you have to get in on the inside, yeah.’

The cat drew in his tail and made a meditative pose. He thought the whole thing absurd.

‘So,’ the cat began languidly, ’where is it?’

‘Dude, everywhere. On the grass, on the wall, on the chairs, on the table. But get it, touch it … I couldn’t.’

‘Everywhere is a big place.’

‘I’m curious, man, does someone want you to drink tea? Tea’s bad man, I tried it once. Try everything once you know. But tea … not my kind of buzz. Shaking for hours. Sucking on a damp bag. Bad stuff.’

‘But where?’ the cat said, more to himself though the rat took it as directed at him.

‘That’s the big question,’ rat said. ‘Where? Everywhere is a kind of nowhere, know what I mean?’

‘It means staying in one place is as good as moving,’ said the cat. 

‘Maybe it’s a trick,’ the rat said with sudden animation. ‘Like the traps the old man sets for me. I know all about the conspiracy. They want us all dead. The rat propaganda is squeak squeak, but I can see what’s going on. Third eye, know what I’m saying? Man would rather kill us than share a crumb. Yep, they hate all animals. You think they like cats. Na, man, it’s all a big lie. They’ll turn on you soon enough. There are rumours from the pigs, and them pigs is clever, that man is all different shades of pervert. Animals and man, it’s no friendship, dude, it’s just privilege extended. Hey, you was king of them once, top cheese, you would know all about it.’

‘Some of them use to say I was a ten-foot lizard with a human body. Now I’m a cat. The human days are best forgotten but on the whole you speak right.’

‘Oh, but you cool. ’Cause you got out of it like. Out of the cogs.’

‘And now I am searching for a teacup. How do you like that for silly.’

‘Nah, man, chase it down. The answer isn’t in things but your mind.’ The rat turned and grabbed something from the darkness. It was cheese but covered in a black and white mould. The rat began to lick and nibble it. He offered some to the cat who refused. ‘Oh, you don’t know what you’re missing. The black, see, gives you the scenes, man. And the white is mellow magic. It takes a little while.’

‘It’s Stilton. I used to have it as king. With crackers.’

‘I wish the old man would have it more often. It’s so hard to get. Ah … but it’s good stuff.’

‘Ok, then, rat, I will try a bit. It was my favourite as a man.’

‘Hey anytime … here … it’s good, isn’t it? You’ll feel a mellow soon. You know I’m here most times, anytime you want to hang out … we can be cheese buddies … check it out, you really likes it. I like the duck, but he can’t eat. And the birds are afraid of me. Me? I’m harmless.’ The rat rested on his side.

‘Thank you for the cheese. I must continue my search for the teacup.’

‘You going? What’s the hurry?’

‘I must find it so I don’t have to worry about it.’

‘All right. But you just ate some of the black, so you may be going somewhere, just not where you think,’ said rat with a smile. 

In the garden, the cat groomed himself and his muscles began to wobble. He fell on his side feeling drowsy. His vision blurred and sounds began to quieten. The grass swayed in the breeze and appeared to uproot itself. He began to see the grass walk and become a green infantry, which saluted the cat in unison. The cat tried to salute back but his paw hit his head clumsily. The grass marched away over to the back fence. The cat’s eyes widened when he thought he saw the teacup on the fence. He blinked and it disappeared. But soon he saw it again, on the table and just as soon it vanished. Then it was on the porch, then not. Then two teacups, both in the tree. Then another on the bed of azaleas and another on the petunias and still another on the bird bath. He closed his eyes. But when he opened them he was shocked to see nothing but teacups. Hundreds of thousands of teacups, layered, tessellated, pressed together. A mass of teacups all indistinct, everything a bright white. He closed his eyes but teacups invaded his eyelids and stared at him in shinning whiteness, solid and still. He felt the teacups gain weight and fall on his head. He mewed and opened his eyes where he saw all the teacups quickly collapse into a shape. It soon resembled an animal and stood in front of him.

‘Remember me?’ the pheasant said.

The cat screamed and begged. He thought he had lost him when he changed to a cat.

‘I must torment you. You caused our annihilation.’

‘I’m sorry … I shouldn’t have.’

‘But you did and it was best for all concerned.’

‘But …’ the cat said.

‘Remember who set the chain on us to begin with.’

‘What do you want?’ the cat said with plenty of miaow.

‘Nothing. But I think you want something.’

‘Please … ’

‘You want to be washed clean. Blameless. Well, guess what, one-time king, exterminator of the pheasant, you can’t have it. Your sin is yours and you have to keep it.’

‘But I thought … after becoming a cat … ’

‘Fool! You still don’t know who I am, do you? You were never the brightest spark. Idiot, I am your conscience. Did you think you didn’t have one? You have ignored me all your life. Now my voice is thunder. And you tremble. A shrivelling cat, that’s what you are.’

The cat whimpered, its ear flat. He cried out to the proud bird who stood firm. The pheasant gloated in silence as the cat prayed. He begged and when he finished and thought he had enough pluck he looked up and was surprised to see the bird gone.

And the cat did not see the wild eyes of the man steaming down on the warpath. Only at the final moment did his whiskers detect imminent danger and he darted through the hole in the fence into the neighbours garden and then into the shed. Feeling in relative safety he licked his paws and batted his face and groomed his fur. There was a noise. He hissed and mewed.

‘The only way out is through me.’ A ginger cat spoke. He was right, he guarded the very hole the king cat had come in. 

‘What do you want?’ said the king cat.

‘I’ve never fought a king before. But you’re not so mighty.’

‘I don’t want to fight you.’

‘It can’t be avoided. You have wandered into my territory.’

‘But, it’s not really my thing. All I want is to relax in the sun,’ said the king cat.

‘Too late. Prepare yourself.’ The ginger cat drew out his claws and growled.

King cat’s fur stood on end and he arched his back and again pleaded. ‘I’m not your enemy.’

But the ginger cat pounced and they tumbled and rolled, knocking over the paint cans and the pitch fork. Paws, claws and teeth struck and bit as the two went pell-mell. They crashed into the side of the shed sending the hammer that was hanging on the hook falling. The cats pulled apart, snarled, hissed and stalked each other in a circle. 

‘I don’t want to fight,’ said king cat. 

‘I could easily do you a fatal blow, King.’

‘Please. I’ll do anything. Anything you want.’

The ginger cat paused. ‘Well. Well now that’s a better attitude. “I’ll do anything you want” says the king. Well, well. Then yes, there is a thing you can do and I will consider our business satisfied.’

‘Anything.’

The ginger cat smiled. ‘Then, one time king, go among the ants and build them a new colony. I owe them a favour. Go! Be a drudge!’

‘But the work is hard and long and I have never worked a day in my life.’

‘Then prepare yourself for round two.’

‘No. I will go. I’m going.’

And with that the ginger cat let him leave and so he went through the grass and wasn’t long before he found a line of ants carrying things to their new colony. 

‘Ants, I am sent to work for you, what must I do?’ 

They ignored him. He repeated the question, then a soldier ant stopped and addressed him. 

‘There is so much to do, if you want to help take those leaves over there.’

The cat nodded and did so. He felt silly taking such a small thing nor did he like the taste of it in his mouth. But he obeyed and carried it to the new colony. He went back and picked up more. Then again and again. He marvelled that the ants never tired. Back and forth, back and forth they went. And the cat too, but after the tenth time he stopped. 

‘Ho, ants. Let’s rest a bit. This is killing me.’

‘No. We cannot stop. There is no time to waste. If we don’t complete our house before the rain comes, we’ll die. No rest.’

Reluctantly the cat continued. But he was slow and tired.

‘Quicker, cat,’ the soldier ant said, ‘quicker. The rain is coming. We must be quick.’

The cat went faster, but soon tired.

‘Ants, please, enough.’

‘The rain is coming. Don’t you hear the thunder?’

Indeed the cat’s whiskers detected a storm brewing. 

‘And it will be a mighty one.’

And before he could say more the first drops of rain fell on his ears, which he flicked. He redoubled his efforts and with alacrity carried leaves, grass and twigs. And as the rain thickened the ants cried out.

‘Help us, cat.’

The little path that the ants had followed began to flood and wash away the workers.

‘Hold on to the grass, you workers,’ shouted the soldier ant.

The cat stopped and tried to shelter the ants with his body, though his fur was getting terribly wet. 

‘Forget us, cat,’ said the soldier ant. ‘Go protect the queen. Go!’

The cat jumped and sprang to the new colony, but when he got there the ants were in a desperate struggle to keep the rain from falling into the mouth of the colony. The cat sheltered the entrance and this bought some time, but the water around the mound was rising. 

The cat sneezed. ‘Oh dear, I think I’m getting a cold.’

The ants under him tried their hand at irrigation to divert the deluge but the rain kept coming and coming. The rain poured and hurled down, chilling the cat to the bone so that he began to shiver. 

‘Hurry ants,’ he said. 

Leaves, mud, sticks, everything was used to make a damn to stop the water. But what does it avail when the floods continue to rise. Water now reached the lip of the mound and frantic ants made a last ditch effort. The cat lay down beside to make himself a dam. He sneezed and blew away the ants’ efforts.

‘I’m sorry, ants. I didn’t mean—’

‘Save the queen!’ the ants shouted. ‘It’s all over, save the queen.’

A burst of ants shot out the mound, thousands and thousands. They flung themselves onto the flood and made a chain. Lightning flashed as the queen, dignified and unperturbed, emerged and stepped onto the chain of ants. They formed a line to the fence and it was hoped that a temporary refuge could be found there. 

But the cat sneezed.

When he opened his eyes ants had been flung everywhere. He got up, shook himself. ‘I’m sorry, ants,’ he cried. 

‘The queen! The queen!’ the ants said.

But there was no sight of her, only ants screaming and struggling in the main. He dashed about. 

‘Queen! Queen!’ But she was nowhere to be found. A heaviness gripped his heart. ‘Oh, what have I done?’

He darted to the fence where a pile of dead ants had piled up. She was not there. He thrashed about the grass looking and calling for her, yet only dead ants floated past. He rushed here and there, near the patio, along the fence, in the rose bush suffering its thorns. But nowhere did he find her. He stopped and surveyed the catastrophe. The water was only paw deep but to the ants it was diluvian. All around were the floating bodies of ants and all the remains of their colony, like driftwood.

‘I have failed,’ he said. ‘Instead of saving them, I’ve ruined them.’ He hung his head and tail and didn’t even notice the heavy drops hitting him. At that moment the pheasant started taunting him. 

‘What happened, one time king, to your lazy day? What a failure you are!’

It was then that he saw the shimmer and glisten of porcelain bobbing on the water. He darted to the teacup in the brightest white. Perfect and pure, twisting and twirling. He rushed and held it with a paw. 

‘The teacup,’ he said. ‘I have found it. I have found it. I have … bah. But what have I found, it’s just a cup. It’s just a stupid cup.’ He readied to fling it when he noticed something inside. As he looked down, he marvelled for inside the cup was an ant.

‘It’s the queen. Without doubt it’s her.’ He made a bow. ‘Good afternoon, Queen.’

The ant waved it’s proboscis. ‘John, it’s me,’ the ant said. 

John the Cat thought he recognised the voice.

‘It’s me, the queen, your wife,’ it said.

‘Mar … Margaret?’ said the cat. 

‘Yes, John it’s me.’ 

‘What … ’

‘Yes. I was made an ant.’

‘But … ’

‘Help me, John,’ the ant said as the raindrops were gathering at her feet.

He took the cup in his mouth and dashed under the awning over the patio. He put the cup down and crouched. ‘How? … Why?’ 

She crawled out of the cup, onto the patio and fluttered her wings.

‘You found me,’ she said.

John the Cat smiled and laughed. ‘Yes, I have found you. But how?’

‘When you turned into a cat, did you think of me? Did you not spear me a thought, the one you left alone? You abandoned your country and your wife. Did you think I would not try to find you?’

The cat hung his head, tears fell out his eyes.

‘You ran away. But was I to do nothing? The only chance was as an ant and so I accepted.’

The cat nodded his doleful head. ‘I am sorry,’ was all he could say.

‘Do you love me?’ the ant said.

‘Always and forever,’ replied the cat.

‘Let us never part again.’

‘Your majesty.’

A legend arose of a strange cat and its fondness for ants. He was seen many and many a time helping them build their colonies and talking to them and being their fierce protector. The bees talked of him having a newfound brilliance in his eyes. The rat marvelled at the cat’s diligence and effort and his generosity of spirit, not only helping the ants, but also the rabbits with their warrens and the birds with their nests. Even the man seemed impressed at the transformation. 

A butterfly, fanning its wings on the fence watched the cat in its work on the new colony. She noticed something that the cat had taken everywhere the colony went and placed beside the mound. It was the glimmering of a teacup.